The Progeny Read Free Page B

in each arm. After loading them in the back of the truck, he says, “So, Bronco. I have an idea.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “You’re obviously not from around here—”
    “Speak for yourself.”
    “Okay, yeah.” He laughs a little. “You been to the Mad Moose yet?”
    “I’ve been pretty much nowhere.”
    “I thought I’d go into town and grab a sandwich. Join me.”
    I had been planning to head back, but it’s not like I have a full afternoon planned. And aside from the Fly Shop, Food Mart, and gas station, I’ve never been anywhere in town.
    I shrug. “Sure.”
    His face lights up, and I decide there must be some woefully slim pickings around here to warrant a smile like that.
    He unties his green apron on the way to his Cherokee, then gets the door for me. It’s a whole three-quarters of a mile to the restaurant on the public dock where resident feral ducks dart between outdoor tables fighting over the intermittent dropped French fry. It’s warm enough that the place is half full. He pulls my chair out for me, and as I sit down I realize this is the most people I’ve been around since my arrival over a month ago.
    “Were you really coming here before I showed up?” I glance at him over my menu.
    “Nope.”
    We order, and he sits back and regards me. He’s the kind of ruggedly pretty that makes me wonder if I went for his type before—and if that’s what landed me here. I remember exactly one date from my past, if it can even be called that, when some kid’s mom dropped us off at the mall with thirty dollars to see a movie in sixth grade. I don’t remember the name of the movie—or the kid.
    “How do you like Maine?” he says.
    “It’s quiet. You live in town?”
    “I’m renting a studio over Charlie’s down the street. It’s not bad. I basically hear whoever’s playing at the Dropfly on the weekend for free. So, Bronco, do you have a name?”
    “Emily. Porter,” I add.
    “Emily,” he says, trying it out. And then he leans forward, hand extended. It’s warm, his grip firm. “Luka Novak.”
    “So what brought you to Greenville?” I ask, fiddling with a straw wrapper.
    “The fishing.”
    “Really?”
    “No.” He laughs, though it sounds more ironic than anything. His eyes have turned gray as the drifting clouds. “A fresh start, I guess.”
    My skin actually prickles.
    It’s then that I begin to notice a few people at the next table over staring in our direction. Mine, specifically. I reach toward my ear, checking that the scrubby patch of hair is covered by my ball cap. It is. I tug the hat a little lower.
    “Hey,” Luka says quietly. “Everything okay?”
    “I feel like people are staring.”
    “It’s because you’re pretty,” he says.
    I stammer something stupid about thinking it has more to do with not looking like I’m from around here.
    When our food arrives I busy myself spreading mayo on my burger, glad for something to do.
    Luka offers me some of his lobster roll, but I’m suspicious of anything that looks like a scorpion, no matter what it tastes like. He eats with relish, shaking his head with appreciation after each bite. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Bronco.”
    I’m just happy to be eating something that isn’t made of cold cuts or my cooking. And to be socializing like a normal person, the sun shining on the parts of my face not obscured by my Red Sox cap.
    I glance up when I realize he’s stopped eating.
    “What?”
    “What are you doing Saturday night?” he says.
    “Working, probably.”
    “On a Saturday?”
    “Pretty much every night.”
    “Doing what?”
    “I, um, tie fishing flies.”
    “At night?”
    I drag a French fry through some ketchup, flick another onto the ground, and immediately regret it because it incites a stampede of feral ducks—not to mention several more gazes our way. “Yeah. I guess I’m kind of a night owl.”
    “Come catch a band with me for an hour or two.”
    “Wow. Groceries, lunch, live